Notes, Dedications & Thanks: For Jimmy, Jack and Connor because of their constant inspiration when it comes to writing very young (and very loved) lads. For Mike and Brian because of their inspiration in writing young-at-heart lads. Thanks to Petra and Em for betaing--can't do this stuff without you guys. More thanks to Van for the last-minute-addition-beta. You are awesome; glad you like semicolons.

A Word on Ages: As there is some conflict in the Appendices about the relative ages of the hobbits, I have drawn *solely* on _The Complete Guide to Middle Earth_ by Robert Foster, 1971 Del Rey & Ballantine Books. The Birth Years (by the Shire Reckoning) for the Gamgee family, Bilbo, Frodo, Merry and Pippin are listed below the story. In this interpretation, Sam is *twelve* years younger than Frodo.

Shire Tales in Rivendell

~ The First Tale ~ 1382 Shire Reckoning ~

Reckon I couldn't have been much more than three. I was playing happily in the dirt, diggin' and burrowin' setting out pretend gardens outside of our smial; it was there that the Gaffer found me, singing to myself and grubby to the tips of my ears. Normally he'd have had a right good laugh, maybe joined me on his knees to explain the wonders of rich Shire earth, but that day Mum had dressed me to go visiting and I'd made rather a mess of my dandy clothes.

Mind you, I hadn't *meant* to, I'd only intended to scuff my feet about for a few minutes while I waited for Mum and the girls. But the dirt was so *nice*, so sweet-smelling and inviting there in the sunshine that I'd dived right in.

You might say a storm was brewing on my Gaffer's face. His heavy brows drew together, his smile faded and with a holler he had scooped me up and stood me on my feet. "Samwise Gamgee, you naughty little grub, just look what you've done!" he bellowed, shaking my jacket so as to drive his point home.

He shook his head, stern-like, but his face had softened a bit. "Well, there will be no trip to town for *you* today, Master Samwise," he said, scratching his chin thoughtfully. He watched me twisting my hands nervously, waiting for the punishment he'd surely lay out. Drawing a handkerchief from his pocket he wiped my face. "Since keeping you out of the dirt is impossible, I think you best come along with me to Bag End and help with the weeding."

I'm sure I lit up at those words. To see the fantastic gardens of Bag End, to actually walk amongst the plants I'd heard described so often! I'd dreamed of it. And perhaps I'd see Mr. Baggins; I loved when he'd come to visit us. Punishment! He couldn't have rewarded me better. I looked at him to see if he was joking; behind his angry expression the Gaffer's eyes were twinkling. He knew.

Not to say my Gaffer spoiled me, of course. He could be mighty strict by times, and he didn't spare the strap when he thought us young 'uns'd be better for it. But I was always his pet, likely because neither of my brothers was much interested in gardening. And perhaps he wanted to indulge me a bit that day, as I had so recently been unseated as the baby of the family. I loved wee Marigold, but it's rough on any tyke when a new babe comes along.

Soon enough he had me properly dressed in old clothes and carryin' a basket filled with his tools. It was a heavy burden for one so small but I didn't complain; I was far too excited. Bag End's gardens looked like a jungle, the plants far taller than I. I was a bit abashed but the Gaffer was soon kneeling beside me, my fat little fingers guided by his rough hands as he showed me which of them green shoots were good and which should ought to be pulled. I caught on quick and he left me there, headin' off to the vegetable patch.

I was toiling away beneath one of the windows when I heard voices. One I recognized as Mr. Baggins, the other was young and unfamiliar. My ears pricked up at once, for the voices were discussing food. I suddenly felt quite hungry myself, particularly when the smell of mushrooms drifted to my nose. I stood on my very toes, stretching myself as tall as I could so I could see inside. The window box was filled with bursting, bloomy things and when I parted them I could see quite clear.

He was laying down bread and cheese by a big dish of mushrooms, and he was blocking my view of his guest. When he moved I saw a hobbit, about the same age as my brother Hal. Dark hair and big blue eyes, and he was grinning from ear to ear. A nice looking young hobbit, laughing with Mr. Baggins and sneaking mushrooms when he wasn't looking.

I was excited. Dragons! Perhaps there would be a story...I strained forward a bit farther, and was surprised to see Bilbo's face inches from my own. "What have we here?" he said, smiling warmly. He reached down and caught hold of me, lifting me over the sill. "Well, young master Gamgee! How came you to be sneaking about my kitchen?"

Bilbo laughed heartily. "Ah, dear boy, we can take care if *that* at least. Here," he said, gesturing to you, "This is my nephew Frodo, come to visit me. He'll help you get ready to eat while I go hunt up your Gaffer." He took my hand and put it in yours. "Frodo, this is Gamgee's youngest boy, Sam."

"Hullo, Sam!" you said cheerfully. "Hurry, Bilbo, if this sprout is half as hungry as I am he may faint!"

When Bilbo'd went out to the garden you pulled me to the washbasin, scooping me up so's I could reach. The water was warm, and you washed my hands and face as if you were used to bathing small, squirming children--I reckon you were, after all you watched Merry so often when he was a tot. Bilbo's soap was different from any I'd ever seen; it was bright blue and made floating bubbles in many colors. I was fascinated--you must have thought it was funny; you amused me by blowing the biggest bubbles I'd ever seen.

"Well my lads, are you cleaned up?" Bilbo's voice rang through the kitchen. You laughed and dried me off, setting me on the floor.

"Just showing Sam the magic soap," you said, ruffling my hair before you sat. The table was far too high for me, so my Gaffer sat me on his lap. As we ate he got quite involved in a discussion about taters with Bilbo and it seemed he quite forgot I was there; I ate far more than was good for me under his very nose.

After a while Bilbo and the Gaffer were arguing good-naturedly over something in the garden. I rubbed my eyes sleepily; I was so tired. When I yawned you laughed and interrupted.

"Looks like the sprout could do with a nap. He can rest in my room if you like, I could do with an after-tea sleep myself." You stood and held out your hand to me.

My Gaffer looked at me for a moment and nodded. "Thank you, young master. See he doesn't sleep to long, now, or he'll be up all night and his mum will have my hide," He laughed and kissed me. "Go with Mr. Frodo now, and be a good boy."

I stumbled over my feet as you led me down the hall; I was tired and my tummy was feeling decidedly queer. Your legs were much longer than mine; I could have taken five steps for each one of yours but you walked slow and patient, humming softly.

Your room was mighty bare for a hobbit-lad, no pictures or drawings or *anything* on the walls, no games or toys on the shelves, no clothes bunched on the floor. You looked around it proud-like anyway. "Someday, Sam," you said half to yourself, "someday when I come to live here this will be my very own room. Fancy that, a room all to myself."

It seemed a rare and great thing to me; my own lot was cast in with two hobbit lads over a decade my senior who delighted in teasing their small brother. I wished that someday *I* would have such a fine room to myself, but for the time being I just wondered where I was to sleep. The bed was far wider than any I was used to; at home I still slept in a basket. I yawned again, wishing my stomach wouldn't feel so odd. You smiled and helped me undress to my shirt so I would be more comfortable and dropped me in the middle of your great bed. Your brows furrowed; you looked concerned, "Are you all right? You're quite pale there, little fellow."

What happened next was a source of shame for me for many years after. I opened my mouth to say that I was all right and was suddenly very, very sick. You gave a shout of dismay and said something sharp, but I don't rightly remember what as I was crying, bawling really. I was afraid and wanted my Mum.

The tears washed your anger clean away. You gently lifted me from the ruined sheets, catching up a towel to wipe my sticky cheeks and checking my shirt for damage--somehow I'd managed not to stain it. I was still howling; you gathered me in your arms and sat in a chair, rocking me just like Mum would. "Shh....Sam, sweet little Sam, you mustn't cry so or you'll be sick again," you said softly, stroking my hair back from my face. I snuffled a bit and swiped at my nose with my sleeve, gulping and hitching until I'd calmed. "Now then, dear boy, do you still feel ill?"

"Don't be sorry, sprout, it wasn't your fault. Now, let me pull off those covers--lucky today's washday--and if you think you can manage it you can pull a clean blanket out of that chest there. Then we'll bundle up nice and warm and I'll tell you a story to help you sleep."

I sniffed again but smiled shyly; you were so nice to me. I pulled a blanket from the chest you showed me; it was heavy and smelled of lavender, and by the time I'd wrestled it to the bed you'd tied the soiled covers into a neat bundle. You took the blanket from me and spread it out, then shed your own weskit and braces. Carefully you set me in the bed and covered me snugly before you lay next to me, stroking my hair. "Now then, what kind of story would you like?"

I was so sleepy I could barely keep my eyes open, but I loved Mr. Baggins's stories and wondered if yours would be as good. "Do you know stories about Elves?" I asked, hopeful. Even at three Elf-stories were my favorite, though I'd only heard a few.

You grinned. "Ah, I see you've already heard some of my Uncle's tales, eh? Well, let see now...would you like to hear about the magic Elf-boat that sails to the West? Or has Bilbo already spun that tale?"

He had, and I told you. "Will you tell it again anyway?" I asked, as polite as I knew how to be. You nodded and settled in to the tale. Your voice was interesting like Bilbo's, but different, kind of sweeter somehow. I fought to stay awake, to listen to your voice, but sleep is stronger than baby hobbits and I lost the battle almost before it began.

I don't know how long I slept.

When I awoke you were dozing next to me, snoring softly. I lay quiet, watching you. I wanted you to be awake and tell me more stories but I was far too shy to wake you, so I just watched the steady rise and fall of your chest until I heard the Gaffer's voice calling. You woke up then and I was the first thing you saw; you grinned at me and tweaked my nose.

Oh Mr. Frodo, I wish you'd wake like that again now. I'd even do with the nose-tweaking.

Where was I? Oh yes. The Gaffer collected me, saying it was time I was home and leaving you and Mr. Bilbo alone. I was sad to leave, I wanted to stay and play. But the Gaffer was firm and you didn't move to stop him; I imagine a pudgy three-year-old was an unsatisfactory playmate for a lad of fifteen; certainly Halfred would agree--he hated me tagging at his heels when he was up to mischief. But you didn't look like the sort of fellow who'd bark at a lad like me just for following along.

"Can we come see Mr. Frodo and Mr. Baggins again Papa?" I asked as we left.

He chuckled. "Oh, I have no doubt you'll be up at Bag End plenty, Sam-lad. I'm going to make a right fine gardener of you, my boy, and someday you'll work in that garden every day. Doubtless you'll see your Mr. Frodo then." He scratched his head. "Mr. Baggins has got a mind to learn you letters and such one of these days; I reckon you're too young for that yet. But perhaps once that scamp of a nephew moves up from Buckland you might take your lessons with him." I didn't really understand, but I was excited by the prospect of more time at Bag End, and of seeing you again. I guess you could say I knew even then that you and I might have some times together ahead.

**** **** ****

Well now. Lets see, what other tales bear tellin'? I s'pose it don't much matter, I doubt you can hear me. But what if you can? What if in that darkness you hear your Sam's voice talking, calling to you, maybe then you'll follow me back to the light?

Mr. Frodo? Oh, won't you come back? You can't leave me here like this. I can't find my way home without you. There *is* no home without you, Mr. Frodo.

I've been holding your hand for two days now, and you've done aught but twitch and murmur. Master Elrond comes in often and I am shooed away; I don't like being pulled from your side but I reckon he needs the space to work. He frowns over you and pulls back them yellowy bandages to touch that awful spot, pale and gray and yet still angry-looking on your skin. Gandalf comes in often too, sometimes he sits here. He tells stories, which makes me think I might be on the right track after all. He brings in some food for me as well, reckon he knows I won't leave for bite and sup. Nor to sleep--I *can't* sleep. Closest I can come is to kneel by the bed and rest my head on your hand--*so*--so if you needs me I'll feel it. But even then I can't relax.

But there, I'm likely worrying you, if you can hear me. No, best to keep telling stories. Happy stories that would make you smile if you were awake. Might make you smile to know all the others have been by at least once. Aragorn comes sometimes, and Merry and Pippin come by when they think of it--they're off explorin' the wonders of Rivendell. Irresponsible rips, ain't they? But then they feel it sharp as I do, it's just how they are to make merry and hide it. Bilbo came in for a while, but he couldn't bear to see you hurtin' so, he cried a bit and said some not-very-nice things about himself, and rings, and that awful Gollum-creature.

Oh, Mr. Frodo, its right down hard to see you lyin' there. You mutter parts of our journey as if you're reliving them. Ain't much pleasure there, that's a fact, once was more'n enough. But you're alive. You're alive and you're breathing and so long as you're here I feel sure you will be all right in time. You're skin is warm now. And it seems to me you don't fret quite so much when I'm talking.

Ah, but I run on so! Best find another tale. Wish I had a knack for them like you and Bilbo do, but I reckon you need to have some adventures before you can have good tales. My adventures have been small, so all my stories follow. Silly little things, but things that are good and solid and homey, maybe they'll help. Make you feel at home.

The author would like to thank you for your continued support. Your review has been posted.